


Born To Be Wild (Time and Space Permitting)

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Take Me To The Stars [34]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Flirting, Motorcycles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22528657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Bored of being stuck in a workshop, Clara suggests an evening out. But the Doctor's attire and her suggested mode of transport take Clara by surprise... and cause a few memories to resurface.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Series: Take Me To The Stars [34]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1139201
Comments: 6
Kudos: 70





	Born To Be Wild (Time and Space Permitting)

**Author's Note:**

> From aprilmaclean's prompt:  
>  _Clara + 13 + motorbike??_
> 
> and allnewtpir's prompt:  
>  _..Whittaker. Bowtie. 13 puts it on and Clara is more receptive of it than when 12 put it on in a previous fic._

“Why don’t we go out somewhere?” Clara suggests one afternoon, leaning in the doorway to the workshop that the Doctor’s parked the TARDIS in and shoving her hands deep into her pockets. The time machine is hoiked up on a car lift, held in place by several chains and straps that look entirely unsuitable for the task, and there’s a stepladder leading up to the door that Clara had fallen off that morning, leaving her with a large purple mark across her left hip that would fade within twenty-four hours, but was nonetheless somewhat irksome in the meantime. “I mean, we’ve been stuck here for ages.”

“We aren’t stuck,” the Doctor admonishes, aiming a blowtorch at the underside of the TARDIS and releasing a shower of sparks over herself. The Time Lady lets out a yelp of surprise, and Clara’s attention flicks over to the fire bucket in the corner, wondering whether sand is an effective foil to space-fires. The sparks, however, dissipate like shooting stars and the Doctor straightens up, smacking her head on the bottom of her ship as she does so and cursing in Gallifreyan. Clara resists the urge to snicker. “We’re just… undertaking repairs.”

“To what?”

The Doctor adopts a look of great hurt as she pushes her goggles up to her forehead, leaving a patch of goggle-shaped clean skin that counters her soot-stained cheeks and nose. “I _have_ explained this several times.”

“Yes, in lots of big words I didn’t understand. The TARDIS still works; I don’t understand what needs repairing.”

“I’m optimising her,” the Doctor says proudly, giving the blue box a fond pat. “Improving the configurations, settings, and room layout. The library’s just had an upgrade, and the swimming pool. You like jacuzzis, don’t you?”

“Yes, why?”

“We’ve got six now.”

“ _Six_?!” Clara raises her eyebrows. “Seems a tad excessive.”

“So does having eight copies of _Pride and Prejudice_ , and yet you do.”

“Point taken,” Clara says magnanimously. “Can’t we go somewhere? Not even anywhere alien, just… somewhere? Watching you work isn’t all that exciting, unless you get all oily and sweaty and strip down to your vest. Which frankly, you need to do a lot more. I’m just saying, you’ve got cracking biceps.”

“Behave,” the Doctor chides, but her cheeks flush red all the same. “Where were you thinking of going?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Clara sighs. “Somewhere fun. Somewhere pretty. Somewhere where we can get a bit dressed up.”

“Like a party?”

“Yes, exactly,” Clara concurs, cheered by the idea. The last time they had been to a party, things had got somewhat hairy; it would be nice to attend an event at which there was no attempted murder, or crime. “Like a party.”

“What kind of party did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Clara sighs, running through options in her head. “Something glitzy. Something fun. Something where we won’t look out of place if we make the effort.”

“I’m sure I can do that,” the Doctor grins, wiping her hands down on her grubby apron. “Give me half an hour to finish reattaching this circuit, and then I’m all yours.”

Clara crosses the space between her and the Time Lady, slipping her arms around her partner’s waist and standing on tiptoes to press a kiss to her cheek. “You’re very cute when you’re doing your Concentrating Time Lord thing, you know that?”

“What’s my ‘Concentrating Time Lord thing’?” the Doctor asks with confusion, although she twists in Clara’s embrace and wraps an arm around her. Resting her chin on Clara’s temple, she asks cheekily: “Please expand.”

“When you’re all cute and concentrating and you think I’m not looking, and you scrunch your nose up and lose yourself in what you’re doing.”

“You _aren’t_ looking.”

“No, you _think_ I’m not. Of course I’m looking at you. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re reading! Or listening to music, or watching Netflix…” the Doctor trails off with a self-conscious little shrug.

“Watching _you,_ more like.”

“Why?!”

“Because I’m in love with you, and you’re much more interesting than series three of _Stranger Things_.”

“Wait until series four,” the Doctor mutters, but she presses a kiss to Clara’s forehead nonetheless. “You’re very cute.”

“I try.”

“And I will take you to a really incredible party, I just need to finish up here first, and I can’t finish up while you’re cuddling me. Sadly. It would be really great if I could, but unfortunately I do need both my hands.”

“Shame,” Clara steps away from her and heads towards the stepladder that leads to the console room. “Well, I’m off to find something suitable to wear. Or unsuitable. Whichever you’d prefer.”

“You’re wicked,” the Doctor chides, but she’s grinning as she picks up a spanner. “Get inside, go on. Go and do whatever it is you do that makes your face look… more coloured-in.”

“Yes boss,” Clara tips her a wink, gives a mock-salute, and climbs into the TARDIS, setting off for the wardrobe with a spring in her step.

* * *

“Will this do?” she asks thirty-four minutes later (she’d counted, purely for bragging purposes). She steps into the console room and gives a little twirl, gesturing to her midnight-blue cocktail dress, which flares prettily as she spins. She only manages a half-rotation before she freezes, her jaw dropping as she takes in the sight before her, and she catches herself off guard, her feet getting tangled up in themselves and causing her to stumble forwards.

“Careful!” the Doctor yelps, grabbing her before she can hit the console or the floor. “You look lovely, as ever. Why are you staring at me like that?”

Clara is indeed staring, her mouth wide open in awed shock. The Doctor is wearing a fitted tuxedo with a long black coat to match, and at her throat is a black bowtie with an unusual gold pattern that matches her hair and casts strange, spangled patterns around the room in the amber glow of the console. As she sets Clara back on her feet, the coat falls back a few inches and reveals a set of black braces, and Clara swallows thickly, trying to resist the urge to twang one of them.

“Where,” she manages after a moment. “Have you been hiding this?”

“What, this old thing?” the Doctor gives her own little twirl, although one that is infinitely more self-conscious. The coat flares around her, revealing a bright silk lining, and something about the air of it all puts Clara in mind of the first time she had seen the Doctor’s previous face in his new outfit; the uncertainty of the expression and the desperate hope that she’d approve of the new clothes. “Had it kicking around for a while. Never really had the occasion to try it out before now.”

Clara reaches up and straightens the Doctor’s bowtie with a careful hand, her fingers shaking as she does so. She smooths the fabric once, twice, and then a third time, willing herself to stop trembling as she does so.

“A bowtie?” she asks softly, and she’s unable to hide the hitch in her voice as she tries, and fails, to sound nonchalantly casual.

“Bowties are cool,” the Doctor responds, her voice low and thick with her own unreadable emotions, and she takes Clara’s hand in her own and presses it to her lips. “Don’t you think?”

Something about the aching, lingering nostalgia of it all makes Clara’s eyes fill with tears, and she looks away, willing herself not to cry in front of the Doctor, and yet a single tear bisects her cheek all the same. It’s almost too much; she had thought herself able to cope with the braces when she’d first seen them on this Doctor all that time ago, and yet here and now, when coupled with a bowtie of the sort that her first Doctor had been so proud of… it’s overwhelming, and she can’t fathom whether in a good way or not. The Doctor seems to read her mind and gives her hand a gentle squeeze, drawing her closer, and the Time Lady’s hands settle either side of her waist, holding her as though she’s made of glass.

“Hey,” the Doctor says softly, skimming a thumb over the fabric of Clara’s dress. “I can change, if it’s too much? I didn’t realise… I didn’t think… I’m sorry, I didn’t know it would upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” Clara manages, shaking her head, because she’s not. She’s just… unsure. “It’s just… nice to see. Nice to see parts of him."

“I _am_ him.”

“I know, but you’re so… different, in so many ways, so it’s nice to be reminded that… well, that he’s in there, you know?” Clara rests her thumb against the Doctor’s sternum, feeling the double beat of the Time Lady’s hearts beneath her fingertip. “Nice to know that he’s still part of you.”

“And always will be,” the Doctor presses a kiss to her forehead. “Do you approve of the outfit, then?”

“I think you’ve been holding out on me,” Clara teases, swiping a finger across her cheek, capturing the lingering remains of her treacherous tears before sniffing deeply and then smiling widely at her partner. “All this time, you’ve had a suit?”

“Tuxedo.”

“Well, I think it’s highly unfair you’ve been keeping it quiet. Entirely unacceptable, frankly.”

“I have _more_ of these, you know.”

“Dear god,” Clara raises her eyebrows, smirking as she does so. “It’s like you want me to die.”

“I very much don’t,” the Doctor assures her. “I’m just not one for dresses.”

“No,” Clara pokes her tongue out at her partner. “That’s my job.”

“It is,” the Doctor looks her up and down with a worried little frown, and Clara feels a stab of panic. Does the Doctor not like the dress? Is it too short? Too long? Too tight? Not tight enough? Too-

“What?” she asks, her voice unnaturally high with concern. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” the Doctor shakes her head quickly. “Just wondering if you can ride a motorbike in that.”

“If I can… what?” Clara asks, her cheeks suddenly and inexplicably burning. The Doctor can’t have a motorbike, Clara reasons. She can’t – she’s much too clumsy; much too uncertain of herself. She wouldn’t be able to-

“Ride a motorbike,” the Doctor reiterates, leading her towards the doors, and Clara sucks in a breath as she takes in the beautiful red vintage motorbike which is parked there, gleaming softly in the golden light of the console room. Reaching out with a fingertip, she runs it over the handlebars, and then looks over at the Doctor with amazement.

“Where have you been keeping this?” she asks with reverent awe. “And don’t say the garage, because the only one in there is mine.”

“It’s been… a labour of love,” the Doctor says with maddening vagueness, and Clara resolves to press her for further answers at a later date. Is there a workshop of these hidden away somewhere? She’ll have to find out. “Do you want to take yours instead? Might be more familiar.”

“No, this one is…” Clara doesn’t have the words to describe it, so she waves her hand ambiguously. “Since when did you ride motorbikes?”

“This is not my first rodeo,” the Doctor says with a grin, and a hint of cockiness that Clara find unspeakably, illogically attractive. “Can you manage to ride a motorbike in that dress? Or do you want to go and change?”

“I’ve ridden a motorbike in shorter,” Clara scoffs, various memorable occasions coming to mind. “So, yes.”

“I know you can,” the Doctor says with a smirk. “I have some fond recollections of-”

“Behave,” Clara chides, but without feeling, and she smacks the Doctor lightly on the arm as non-verbal encouragement. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“What?” the Doctor blinks in confusion. “What…”

“Let’s go!” Clara says, circling the bike and feeling excitement beginning to build in her stomach. It’s been a long time since she’s been on a bike, and the memory of how it feels to have the open road slipping away beneath your wheels is calling to her. “Come on!”

The Doctor laughs, retrieving two helmets from a nearby chair and handing one to Clara before putting on her own and buckling it securely under her chin. “Fine, fine. Patience is a virtue, you know.”

“A boring one, yes,” Clara sticks her tongue out at the Time Lady as she pulls on her helmet. “What kind of horsepower is this thing packing?”

“More than enough,” the Doctor mounts the bike and Clara does the same, arranging herself on the seat behind the Time Lady and ensuring that her dress is tucked around her in such a way that any fellow road-users don’t get an eyeful of anything they shouldn’t. Wrapping her arms around the Doctor’s waist, Clara feels a familiar thrill of adrenaline as the Time Lady starts the engine and revs the bike a few times for good measure, before clicking her fingers to open the doors.

It’s then that Clara remembers the stepladder and the plunge to the floor, and she is about to speak when she realises the TARDIS is no longer in a workshop – she can smell the sea, and the air is warm where it meets her exposed skin. She hasn’t time to process any more than that before the bike accelerates forwards, and she lets out a triumphant whoop, burying her face in the Doctor’s shoulder as the console room disappears behind them and they head out onto a smooth, winding road that runs parallel to the sea.

The party can wait, Clara decides. Being fashionably late is, after all, the best way to arrive.


End file.
